Chapter Twelve

Saturday morning arrived at last: the day of the big races. I found Lorna in a high state of excitement at the prospect. What did that augur for me? And I was also disturbed by a conversation I’d had the previous evening when the couple I had married in October, Howard Gallibois and Gladys, told me a troubling story. Gladys went to church in Red Bay, part of Tabacher, and one Sunday the Roman Catholic priest, Father Poudrier, had taken her aside after the service. She had told him that she was now with child and as agreed with her Anglican husband, if it were a girl it would be brought up in the Catholic faith. That was the practice hereabouts, and indeed in the Gaspé where I came from. Couples in mixed marriages often went to different churches.

Imagine her consternation when the priest gave her a big dressing-down and said that her children would be bastards because she had not married in “God’s church.” She was living in sin and the priest feared for her immortal soul. He even went so far as to say that unless she confessed her willful deed and received absolution, she could not take Communion.

Well, this was indeed a situation that needed dealing with. But how? Here again, amidst all the theology, New Testament, ethics, and biblical history that I had absorbed, nowhere was I told how to deal with a priest of a different faith within the bounds of one’s own parish who was dog-in-the-manger about his pronouncements.

I tried to put this situation out of mind and let myself enjoy the proceedings as I walked down to the temporary stage thrown up by the enterprising Phillip Vatcher and his team of workers from the school and some local men. In the winter, it is true, there is not a lot to do, once the seals had been harvested and their pelts stretched, many high on the walls of houses. Women made the garments in winter, not men. Of course, men went back into the interior, hunting or cutting stove wood, but this week, in view of the coming races, most of them had elected to stay home, so Phillip had plenty of help.

I was pleased I had arrived back in time, and had been asked by my two wardens if we could sit together and discuss the rest of the winter. I had decided that Clayton, having absorbed a good bit of English, history, and geography on the trip, should stay and even teach a class of younger children while I was away travelling on my rather long western pastoral trip. This meant no driver for me and both wardens were mightily concerned.

“Not even Mr. Bishop went alone, Mr. John,” Thomas Bobbitt said. “With all due respect, that’s some risk you’re taking, going all that way by yourself. She’s one big trip.”

“But our young people here need the teaching,” I countered. “And I feel perfectly fit. I’ve actually been planning just such a possibility. On this return journey, I mostly handled the dogs myself. I’m pretty well acquainted now with how to make a fire on the snow and spend nights in makeshift shelters. So I’m not only willing but eager to undertake the journey by myself.” They began to interrupt, but I held up my hand. “Yes, no doubt, it will be filled with danger, more so than my previous trip, but then you see, I can’t be a party to someone else coming to a bad end because of me!” I grinned.

“Perish that thought!” said Thomas Buffett, the people’s warden. “But if you’re determined, well, three years ago, Mr. Kerr, ’e did it as a young deacon and returned safely.”

“And there are lots of stopping places,” I added.

“Yes, but them winter storms come up powerful quick. You never knows.”

After more discussion, during which I remained firm, we decided to plan on that eventuality, though their misgivings had planted serious qualms. Was I being foolish? Well, I had decided, and after services on the morrow, I would take Monday to prepare myself and Tuesday I would take the bit in my teeth, and set off.

At the site of the festival, and being the official judge, I was assigned a seat on the platform, or bridge, about ten by ten feet across. But I found the wind strong and preferred to stand by a fire some enterprising youths were tending. And darn it all, didn’t that problem with the priest loom again into my consciousness, for I knew he’d be here. The only thing that made it disappear was the sight of Lorna in her best tuque striding happily along, cheeks red from the cold, jet black, freshly washed hair shining in the low sun, which was struggling into the bleak winter sky.

She went across to greet Phillip Vatcher, a fine-looking man, I thought, rather too fine for my own liking, with frank, blue eyes, fair hair, and well-defined, almost Slavic, cheekbones, wearing a confident air. They sat down side by side.

After judging three or four competitions without much difficulty, I watched the winners — in a procedure Phillip had laid down — mount the steps to the stage and receive a small prize from Lorna as queen, who kissed each on the cheek and gave a hug. I must say all the men seemed more pleased with the kiss than with their gift. I smiled at these displays, on the one hand happy that Lorna was now so fully accepted by everyone and so clearly admired, and on the other, bothered by some curious lurking jealousy.

The last event before dinner, after the slippery pole had dispensed with a majority of climbers (only one of whom reached the top) we arrived at the climax of the morning: the men’s snowshoe race. Phil had planned the course to go about a mile out around the cape toward Entry Island, where another judge would make sure that the men weren’t taking any short cuts, and then back to the finish line. By now even the sleepyheads had gathered, so there was a good crowd. I would say almost every inhabitant of Mutton Bay, old and young, had turned out, the older given pride of place next to the fire to keep them warm, the youngsters cavorting about, everyone having a good time. And didn’t I spot Father Poudrier in his black garb?

Should I go right over and confront him? But how exactly? I prefer spur of the moment action in order to avoid agonies of indecision later. But right now, with all the fun going on, I just couldn’t bring myself to go across and speak to him about this dreadful indictment of a marriage I had recently performed. No, wait a bit, I decided.

I stood at the starting line, gave the signal, and Phillip fired his gun in the air. At the crack, well over a dozen men set off at a good clip on their rackets. I had no idea anyone could go so fast. These were strong men, men who had built their muscles and endurance in the winter seal hunts and again in the summer’s fishing. They had cut trees in freezing winter forests, trudged for miles behind komatiks laden with wood or caribou carcasses, hauled in huge seals, and travelled strenuous traplines. These were fellows whose endurance I found admirable and whose strength was undeniable. No finer breed of men, I reflected, ever trod God’s good earth.

In no time, the tiny dots in the distance were seen on their way back. We all gathered around the finish line and even before they got within earshot, boys started yelling for fathers, wives for their husbands, little girls shrieked, old ladies clapped and as they came closer, we saw Archie Mansbridge in the lead. But he was rapidly being overtaken by a younger man, Ivan Green. Harry Robertson was a strong third, and it looked like a close race. I’m not looking forward to judging this, I thought, but I knelt at the finishing line sighted across the two sticks, and waited.

Mansbridge it was by one mere second, then Green, and Robertson, as the crowd erupted into shouts and cheers.

We all clustered around the stage for the presentation ceremony. Archie was given a kiss by Lorna, after which he wrapped his arms around her and proceeded to give her one back, a mighty one on her lips, which caused catcalls and consternation and lots of laughter. After he released her, he shook her hand, seeing as how she stood somewhat dazed, indeed shocked, but then she broke into a delightful peal of laughter along with everyone else.

Archie had put my stomach in turmoil, but I went forward as his judge and pastor and heartily shook his hand, congratulating him both on his race and, as I told him, on his kiss; this was greeted by everyone with more laughter and applause. We retired for our dinners.

And then I remembered Bessie Yarn, the head of the Women’s Guild. I hadn’t mentioned anything about her to Lorna, and now I wondered if Lorna might not be exacerbating the situation — again unwittingly. Now was not the time to warn her; I had to bite my tongue, and let events take their course.

After a good hour’s break, the dog teams began to assemble for the main race of the day, potentially a dangerous one. Cleverly, Phillip had spread out the starting line to leave ample space between dog teams. I mounted the stage to watch and then helped Lorna up the steps; she had been away for dinner, invited out by Phillip and his organizers at their house.

“You’re doing a wonderful job, Lorna,” I said. “I’m mighty proud of you.” I was about to go on, when she quickly whispered, “Thank you kindly, Jack,” and turned to assume her regal role.

I spotted Clayton approaching with Tuck at the head of our fine team. I did so hope that, if he won, it would be by a good length so I’d not have to judge any close call. I waved and shouted out encouragement. Lorna saw him and left the stage to go and chat. After a moment, she patted him on the shoulder and gave him a big good-luck kiss.

That was greeted by catcalls and whistles by the other starting drivers. “We want the same send off,” one called. “Not fair,” another shouted, “we all got to have the same good-luck wish.”

Oh no! What would the Bessie Yarns think?

Nothing for it but she had to walk along and kiss each of the fourteen contestants and wish them luck too. This send-off was of course exactly what made every contestant happy. I watched the wives — being myself overly sensitive. But no, they seemed all to take it in good humour, though a few may have felt, as I did, a curious twinge. As I turned, Bessie caught my eye. She gave me a reassuring look. Imagine how relieved I felt!

When Lorna came back to the stage, I heard a chorus of yaps and barks, broken by vicious snarling. Two dog teams had somehow become enmeshed. Their owners hastened with whips to break it up, but it was not easy. In fact, so fierce was the encounter that only after several minutes were they separated.

One dog lay bleeding and when it picked itself up, it could hardly stand. Its owner, Wilfred Organ, began arguing with the owner of the other team, Ivan Buffett. “Now look what you done! How am I gonna race with Murky here? She’ll never run again.”

Ivan replied to the effect that it was not his fault: dog fights happen, to which several agreed. Wilfred began to remonstrate with him and I could see this building into a real altercation, so I waded into the fray.

I lifted my hand for quiet. I asked the good Lord to throw me a few special phrases but none came. So I began, “Now as the official judge, I must plead for calm. It’s such a beautiful occasion, a great festival day, and we don’t want it spoiled with any squabbling.”

This sounded as weak to me as it must’ve done to everyone else.

“We won’t squabble, Mr. John,” Wilfred said loudly, “but what am I going to do now, racing with one dog short?”

Then it came to me. “Only one thing. One fair and just solution. Ivan Buffett, you release one dog from your team and leave him behind, so you’ll also go one dog short like Wilfred.”

Everyone looked at each other. Was it not a solution worthy of Solomon? Well, not quite. But grudgingly, Ivan nodded. “I guess that’s only fair. Okay, Wilf,” he said, “I’ll get rid of one of my best dogs, and then we’ll all line up.”

And so he did. The course ran down to Schooner Bay, probably an hour there, and an hour back. So we could amuse ourselves in the meantime. Someone had brought a mess of dried capelin and we toasted them on the fire which the lads kept stoked. Again, I saw the elderly Father Poudrier joining the celebration and I realized now I must finally take the bull by the horns and go talk to him.

Difficult situation, no doubt. I walked across to where he stood talking to a couple of his parishioners. He greeted me cordially, although we had not met before. After we had undergone a few pleasantries about the joyful day, the good turnout, and how all our flock were clearly enjoying themselves, I suggested we step aside.

“It came to my attention that the couple I married, a nice young man named Howard Gallibois and his wife, Gladys, were surprised by your reaction to their marriage, which I myself performed.”

He shrugged. “She not be perform in God’s church,” he said. “So pas correct! She not correc’. I tell to them what is right, that is all.” He turned away.

I could not let him off so easily. I could see that he was elderly, and I wondered what his bishop was doing sending priests of his age to this remote and dangerous life. Our bishop, as we all knew, chose young men who might be at ease in boats and on komatiks for ministering to a parish spread out over a vast distance. Father Poudrier likely moved only between his rectory and his little church perched at the end of the Red Bay inlet.

“But good father, our marriage rites are indeed very similar to yours. And, after all, we are all Christians, are we not?”

A hackneyed argument, I admit, too often repeated everywhere in doctrinal clashes between Catholics and Anglicans. But surely up here on the Canadian Labrador, I said, the strictures of the church might be loosened?

He shook his head. “Our church, she come from St. Peter. No other church have this authority. I do not speak what is not correc’. Me, I know what is right.”

“But surely, Father Poudrier, you cannot mean what you said, that the wife will have bastards? That she is right now living in sin?”

“Precisely. My archevêque — that is what he tell us. You must to speak with your bishop, you, and sure he say you what is right. But before she marry wid me, she live in sin, oh yes oh yes.”

I looked at him, frowning slightly. Could he really be so stiff and indeed prejudiced? I felt my ire rising, ready to lash out. If I didn’t, I could see I’d be seething all day. But then I looked in his watery eyes. He was of the old school, and near retirement. What good would any anger that I, a young deacon, might pour out — what good would it do? I sublimated my passion, nodded, and held out my hand to shake his. He looked at it and turned away.

So much for that! No wonder our churches collide all over the world. Such a shame. But there was nothing that I, a newcomer to the fray, could do to change it. I resolved to reassure the couple that they were certainly married in the eyes of God, as indeed were thousands of couples all across our nation and indeed the world, whose union had been blessed by the Church of England. In the face of this old priest’s intransigence, I would have to tell them to spend no further time worrying.

Someone shouted and in the distance we could make out a lone dog team travelling toward us. We all peered, and within minutes, others could be seen. The way back was obviously quicker, for a trail had been broken. I watched the leader closely, hoping that it was Clay. But no, neither at the head, nor number two, nor as far as I could make out, number three.

“Doesn’t look like Clay is up there with the winners,” I said to Lorna.

She shook her head. “Just keep hoping.” She moved off as Phillip called her to meet someone new.

All the attention being on Lorna rather than on me as leader of the flock was an entirely new experience, one that I actually found somewhat disturbing. But later that night as I lay in bed, I saw that getting all the attention must surely be not good for one who had taken up my calling. I resolved to put away this ridiculous, and actually quite new, need for attention that had developed. Thrusting it behind me and at the same time recognizing my awareness of it might even improve my own attitude.

As the sleds came closer, we saw Clay was right behind number three. Tuck was doing her best. About half a mile away, Clay took a risk and moved onto another track. Slowly, he began to pull level with the third team. On they came, neck and neck, toward the finish line. This close race caused everyone to applaud and yell for those two teams. Unfortunately, the teams with one dog short were bringing up the rear. I resolved to offer them consolation prizes, which I could do as the judge of the competition.

At any rate, the winner was well ahead; the second, solidly behind him, was Johnny Jones; and then came two more together — Clay was one of them, being just a foot or two behind. Oh Lord, I thought, what if they go over the finish line at the same time? What would I do then?

But thankfully, amid the roar of the crowd and the screams of the children, Clay just managed to overtake Jones by a dog’s length and Jones’s team came in third. What a blessed ending to a wonderful day!